


Of Tears, Frustration, and Love

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Light Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: When Miranda arrives at Andy's apartment after a divorce meeting, her feelings become undeniable.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 22
Kudos: 297





	Of Tears, Frustration, and Love

In the few months they'd been conducting what Miranda refused to label "an affair," their encounters hadn't ranged much in their nature: the sex had certainly improved, their level of familiarity and comfort with one another had grown, but each rendezvous usually started with Miranda attacking Andy's lips shortly upon arriving at her underwhelming apartment and ended with them falling asleep in a sweaty heap of limbs and sheets. Sometimes, they would share a take-out dinner if it wasn't too late or spare time to indulge in conversation before or after sex (or in-between rounds), and on rare occasions, Miranda would go back to her own house after satisfying and being satisfied, but overall, their meetings were pretty much the same.

This one was slightly different. It wasn't in the way Miranda charged into the apartment or how she basically tried to swallow Andy whole with her kiss before the door was even closed, but something about _her_ was different. She was kissing Andy with such fervor and urgency, clutching her shoulders so hard there were bound to be finger-shaped marks there later.

Though reluctant to let go, white spots began to form over Andy's eyes, her lungs begging for oxygen, and she whimpered against Miranda's mouth, feebly pushing at her until Miranda released her swollen lips, allowing her to take big gulps of air. It was then, when her heart started to slow, that she noticed it: the bloodshot eyes, the slightly reddened, puffy skin around them. The shocking, impossible truth was undeniable: Miranda had been crying.

And then it clicked: Miranda had had a meeting with Stephen and the divorce lawyers after work, presumably her last engagement before coming to Andy's. The divorce proceedings, so far, had been nightmarish, both sides refusing to relent even though Stephen had been the one to claim that he "just wanted out," sick of being stuck in an ungratifying marriage. But ever since then, he'd been doing everything other than leaving Miranda alone, milking her out of every last ounce of energy to fight back, and the toll it was taking on her was obvious regardless of how hard she tried to hide it. It was evident in the foul mood she was constantly in despite Andy's best efforts to lighten it, the perpetual, dark cloud consistently hovering over them every time they got together, even in Miranda's posture, which was not quite so straight and proud these days, as though an invisible weight was sitting on her shoulders, forcing her down.

But this was the first time Andy had seen her cry. If it had happened before, Miranda hadn't let her see it, but this time the proof of her misery was unquestionable, accompanied by a look of utter despair and defeat.

"Hey," Andy began gently, aware that she was at risk of poking a bear, knowing she had to tread very carefully, and when Miranda tried to go in for another ravaging kiss that would effectively cease conversation, she brought her hand up to her cheek, stalling her. "Hey," she said again, slightly more firmly. "It's okay--"

"Stop," Miranda croaked and Andy's heart stopped beating. If she was going to cry again, right then and there...

But Miranda didn't. Instead, she tugged Andy flush against her and kissed her again, although this time it was decidedly more subdued. Andy was the one who decided to deepen it, holding the back of Miranda's head in place so she could lick her way inside her mouth. She never wanted to see that haunted look on her face, couldn't bare the thought of watching the strongest person she knew break down in front of her, and she resolved to do anything she could to make sure that by the end of the night, Miranda's eyes shone again, and not with tears.

To that end, she started walking backward toward the bedroom, never parting with Miranda's lips, which was apparently, thankfully, the correct course of action because Miranda's hands returned to her shoulders, but didn't grip them as though afraid she'd lose the contact. Andy was not leaving her.

They settled in the bed, Miranda's knee bent so Andy could bury her fingers deep inside her while slowly kissing her mouth and swallowing the little sighs and gasps that escaped with every thrust. Upon the realization that she was selflessly depriving herself of Miranda's sounds of pleasure, she sucked her lower lip one last time before trailing her kisses down her jawline and neck, nuzzling in, tasting the skin. It was unbelievably soft and warm and smelled like that luxurious, intoxicating perfume Miranda always wore.

She loved her. She knew that much by now. Some time in the last few months, between exhibiting the most unprofessional behavior during Paris Fashion Week and getting to worship Miranda's body on a frequent, regular basis, she'd fallen head-over-heels in love with the most infuriating, the most emotionally closed-off, the most _female_ person in the world. She couldn't explain it, not with a gun to her head: couldn't say why and how and _why_ , of all people, Miranda Priestly. But the little dance her heart did every time they met, the little tug of longing in her chest every time she thought of her were indisputable, as was her current urge to make Miranda feel so good she forgot about everything else.

She didn't know how it was going to work, but so far it _was_ working.

" _Oh_ ," Miranda exclaimed brokenly when Andy nipped right below her chin, slightly to the right. It was one of those sweet, sensitive spots she'd discovered their first night together--and smugly prided herself on it--that rendered Miranda weak and breathless in her arms.

"That's it," she murmured, lowering her head to draw a line of kisses down the slope of a smooth shoulder. Down below, she thrust deeper, causing Miranda to undulate, meet her movements.

It wasn't before long--it was actually quicker than usual--that the telltale signs of an impending orgasm presented themselves in the tightening of Miranda's walls around her fingers, the pulse centered in her clit against the heel of Andy's palm, and the labored, ragged breath coming through dry, parted lips. Miranda was losing herself to the sensations, every last remaining, functioning faculty focused on the promise of release.

And when it was over, she gradually sank back against the mattress, limb by shaky limb, inch by satisfied inch, still moaning her pleasure. Andy sank, too, removing her wrinkled fingers from within her and stretching out beside her. Head on her pillow, she studied Miranda's exquisite profile: her regal, curved nose, the sharp cheekbones, the tight pinching of her lips, granting her a tense look even after full-bodied release.

In a weak attempt to take her mind off the whole ordeal, Andy offered, "My editor said today that he really liked my piece on the Bronx. He's gonna give me meatier material from now--"

"Don't get married, Andrea."

"--on..."

"Or at the very least, don't get divorced," Miranda finished with a sigh that seemed to come from deep within her body and shake her to the core.

Lips pressing into a thin line, Andy inched closer and laid a hand over her chest, feeling the decreasing heartbeat underneath the skin. She didn't want to think about marriage, something that was so far off in the future, let alone divorce. She dreaded to think about a life with anyone who wasn't Miranda and didn't want to ruminate on the culmination of something that had barely begun. In either case, it was too early to think ahead and make plans and declare any kinds of declarations. What she and Miranda had was still so new and precarious and so easy to destroy with the wrong gesture or choice of words.

So all she said in response was, "Okay," whispering the word as if reluctant to even let Miranda hear it. Miranda's lips pinched harder, almost to the point of whiteness, but she didn't add any further. Taking a leap, Andy asked, "It's that bad?"

She knew it wasn't good--was any divorce? In fact, it didn't take a genius to notice it was awful, but Miranda never talked about it, never elaborated. She absorbed everything, she suffered in silence, but whether she didn't want to bring her troubles into their meetings or simply didn't yet trust Andy enough to share, she kept her mouth shut, keeping all details of the divorce process to herself.

Or had, at least, until about a minute ago. She was opening a crack in her well-erected walls, and as big of an enigma as she was, Andy knew Miranda enough by now to know that she should grab her chance and walk right through the crack.

Looking up expectantly, she watched Miranda run the back of an arm over her eyes before letting it drop to the pillow above her head. She was staring at the ceiling and that despondent look was back in her eyes, the evidence of her pleasure all gone. "I don't see it ending any time soon," she muttered, almost to herself. Then she added, practically spitting her disdain, "It's ridiculous. He won't stop stretching it out and for what--" She cut herself off mid-rant, as if she hadn't meant to share in the first place.

At a complete loss, Andy bit her lip, deep lines creasing her forehead. There was nothing she could say or do to help; if anything, she was the side piece Miranda was technically cheating with, and if uncovered, this affair could complicate the divorce and Miranda's whole life even further. It was discouraging, depressing, and enraging all at the same time, but then she'd already known that nothing involving Miranda Priestly was ever simple and yet she'd walked right in, willing to take the risk.

"Is there... is there anything I can do? To-to help?"

"Can you make me happily divorced by the end of the week?" Miranda asked bitterly.

Gulping, Andy lay back against the pillow, feeling utterly useless and inexplicably sad. This was not how she'd pictured their night going. Miranda, perhaps of the same mindset, sighed again, rubbed her face, and sat up. "I think it's time I go home."

Alarmed, Andy rose as well, stuttering, "W-what?"

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a company tonight," Miranda said dispassionately, leaving the bed in search of her scattered clothes.

Andy hastened to argue, "I don't mind!"

Over her shoulder, Miranda gave her a skeptical look before bending to pick her bra up off the floor. "The girls are home anyway," she continued casually while slipping both arms into the straps and reaching behind her back for the clasps. "It'd be nice if we slept under the same roof for a change." As if that had ever bothered her before. Miranda loved her daughters more than the lovliest piece of couture, and to that end she returned home after nights in the Lower East Side early enough to greet them when they woke up--which suited Andy just fine because her new job forced her to rise just as early, her previous job accustoming her to do so--but it had never stopped Miranda from giving in to her id and spending the night in Andy's creaky bed instead of between Egyptian cotton sheets, paying the nanny extra to enjoy them instead and claiming that "they're asleep anyway; they won't know."

"Miranda," Andy stated soberly and climbed off the bed just as Miranda was beginning to button a cream-colored, silk blouse. She tried to find her gaze, which Miranda was expertly avoiding, before giving up and going ahead anyway: "I want you to stay."

She tried to convey enough sincerity to reassure Miranda without spooking her, knowing it was a very tight rope she was balancing on, and barely allowed herself to hope when Miranda left the top half of her blouse unbuttoned and looked up, seemingly searching Andy's eyes for affirmation.

"I don't know what to say to make it better," Andy spoke her thoughts, lips pulling down in a morose frown. "But I want to be here for you through all of this, in whichever capacity you'll let me." Coming closer when Miranda wouldn't acquisce--but wouldn't dispute her either--she grabbed the hem of the blouse, not to remove or help her redress, but to establish contact, and pleaded, "Please stay?"

The nod that eventually consented to her plea was so subtle Andy almost missed it, but then Miranda followed it up with a murmured "Alright," and the brick Andy hadn't realized was pressing on her chest finally dropped, clearing the way for a relieved smile.

They climbed back between the sheets after Miranda had stripped anew and Andy had pulled out the toothbrush she'd sheepishly presented to her some time before, and both ready for sleep, Miranda's back pressed against Andy's front, Andy's arm draping over Miranda's side. She lay awake, listening until her companion's breathing evened out, and in that time she mused that Miranda might not be a big talker, but in every other way she showed Andy what she couldn't with words: Andy was the only one allowed to see her tears, and when things were rough, she'd sought the comfort of Andy's embrace, and in her own way, Miranda was telling Andy that she loved her back.


End file.
